


The Sapphire Streak

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Artie's Brain is on Newsies Crack, Davey is Iris but cooler, Detective!Sarah, Identity Reveal, Jack is Barry, Journalist!Davey, Kidnapping, M/M, Metahumans, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship, Rescue, Secret Identity, Superhero!Jack, Superpowers, the flash au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15914286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: Life in Manhattan has gotten a little Twilight-Zone since the particle accelerator explosion. Davey Jacobs is doing his best to spread the word to the people through his online blog, trying to make them believe in the strange new world of superpowered metahumans that have emerged since that day and, especially, in the speedster superhero that's been saving people's lives.Unfortunately, it's hard to concentrate on his work when there's something up with his best friend, Jack Kelly. Torn between loyalty to his friend and discovering the story behind the mysterious speedster, Davey finds himself dragged deeper into the metahumans' world. And not everyone in that world is a fan of his blog.*Newsies in Flash AU*





	The Sapphire Streak

**Author's Note:**

> So over the last year and a half, my brain has been on this kick where basically any show or movie I watch, my muse goes, "Hey, how would this play out with the Newsies in it?" And I indulge her (because I'm trash), which results in stuff like this (which is trash.) This is one of the few AUs I've actually managed to contain in a oneshot instead of a freakin' novel, and I've been sitting on it for like a year because I didn't want to post it while I was working on Stars. So, uh, surprise?
> 
> Yeah, don't mind me, I'm gonna slink back off to my shame-hole now.

The cursor blinks mockingly at him, and Davey glares back. This is a stupid idea. Honestly, this is the sort of stupid idea that Sarah's constantly warning him about, the kind that's probably going to get him into trouble. Stupid, like publishing a blog about the mysterious metahumans - people with superpowers - that appeared in Manhattan after the particle accelerator explosion. Stupid, like constantly throwing himself into harm's way in search of the truth behind a story. Stupid, like antagonizing the uber-destructive metahuman robbing his local bank this morning to distract them from hurting anyone else, giving the speedster that's been saving people in the city enough time to race in and rescue them all.

So, all things considered, it's right on par with his typical life choices lately then.

David's eyes flick back to the laptop screen, bright against the darkness of the empty coffee shop he's just finished locking up for the night. There is a draft for a new blog post open on the screen, the white box filled with only a single line of text, just two words: _Thank you._  It feels woefully insufficient, considering the events of the day, but he still feels the need to say it and at least this way, he knows it'll get seen. The cursor blinks at him, daring him, and his hand hovers over the trackpad. This is ridiculous. Taking a deep breath, David moves the cursor over the submit button and clicks.

_New post "Thank you" uploaded_

A sudden wave of vertigo hits Davey, and for a minute, all he can see is a whirlwind of blue and gold. When his vision clears, he's standing on the roof of the coffee shop. The wind is cold and bracing up here, and he instinctively takes a shuffling step back from the nearest edge of the building.

"Youse welcome."

Startled, David spins on his heel. There's a large light above the roof access that's blinding him, but behind that, he can see a vague silhouette. Someone standing on the ledge above the door. Someone whose voice has a distorted, vibrating resonance that he recognizes.

"How-?" Davey chuckles and shakes his head. "I literally _just_ posted that."

There's a laugh, and the figure hops forward to sit on the ledge. Davey still can't see his upper body, but there's a pair of navy boots draped down into the glow of the light. "Running ain't the only thing I do fast," the speedster says. He pauses and then adds, "Don't go takin' that wrong."

David snorts in amusement, surprised. "You know, even with your voice like that, you still have an accent. You from Brooklyn?"

"I'm offended." He kicks his feet, the motion so fast they are barely more than a blur of blue. "That was a helluva thing ya did, steppin' in when the Bull was tearing up the place."

"The Bull?" David echoes, raising an eyebrow.

The metahuman chuckles. "Don't look at me, I don't name 'em. Speaking of - Sapphire Streak? That's gotta go."

"What should I call you, then?" asks Davey.

"I'll get back to ya on that," the speedster says. "But back to the point, this ain't the first time I seen you at a crime scene. Almost got ya'self crushed today." Davey can't stop a small flinch as he remembers just how close he came to possible death today, a split second away from being smashed beneath a chunk of concrete when the speedster arrived and swept him out of the way. "You got a pretty bad habit of gettin' in the middle of trouble."

"My best friend says the same thing," Davey says, smirking. "He's always telling me that one of these days, I'm gonna go chasing a story and fall headfirst into the headline instead."

A chuff of laughter. "Sounds like a smart guy. Should listen to him."

"Honestly, he's half the reason I do this," David admits. The swinging legs abruptly still. "I mean, I've always loved chasing down stories and finding out the truth. I was always going to be a journalist. But for as long as I've known him, my best friend's been telling me that there's so much more to the world than what we think.

"I always thought he was just a daydreamer, fantasizing because he doesn't like the humdrum city life much. He's an artist, so, you know-" Davey trails off with a vague, 'what can you do' gesture that tugs a soft laugh out of his audience. "Then all this - the particle accelerator, metahumans, _everything_ \- it happens, and suddenly he's more right than I think even _he_ imagined. There's this new world opening up in front of us, and people need to know about it. And he needs to know that I believe him; that I know he was right. _Is_ right."

There's a long pause after this as the speedster considers him. He can't see it, but David can feel the weight of his gaze. "That - I mean, that's a nice thing, but you still gotta step off. That friend, how's he gonna feel if you get ya'self killed?"

"I thought that's what you're for," Davey jokes.

A blur of gold light streaks passed him, and David turns to follow. The speedster is standing at the edge of the roof, his back to Davey. "And what if one day I _ain't_ there in time? Whatcha gonna do then?" He clears his throat, the sound oddly metallic through the vibrations. "Just - be careful, pal."

And then David's back inside the coffee shop, alone, with the lingering scent of electricity in the air.

* * *

"I mean it, Sarah, something is going on."

On the other end of the phone, Davey hears his sister let out an exasperated sigh. "Dave-"

"Something is wrong with Jack," David insists. It's been bugging him for weeks, and he's starting to get desperate, hence the midday call to his older sister, despite knowing she's at work and probably busy. Jack Kelly is David's best friend, has been for almost a decade, and Davey can tell when something's bothering him.

"You sure it's not just part of him getting settled again?" she asks patiently. "He did lose almost a year of his life. That's got to be disorienting."

David's stomach lurches at the reminder. Nearly a year ago, the night of the particle accelerator explosion at World Labs, Jack had been inexplicably struck by lightning while working in his art studio. He spent the next nine months - the longest nine months of Davey's life - in a coma, being monitored by Dr. Pulitzer's team from World Labs after the hospital proved incapable of handling the sporadic cardiac episodes and seizures Jack suffered in the beginning.

"That's not what this is," Davey says, shaking away the memories. "He's blowing me off, forgetting plans. He skipped out on helping Medda. He bailed in the middle of Les' birthday party, Sarah." He hears his sister's impatient noise cut off, understanding the significance; their little brother adores Jack almost as much as Jack loves him, and Jack never misses a chance to dote on the kid as the brother he never had. "He's flighty and distracted, and he won't _talk_ to me about it. I don't - I don't know what to do anymore."

There's a weighty pause, the sound of Sarah tapping something on the other end, and then she lets out a breath. "He's coming in later to help with some suspect sketches," she says. "I'll try to talk to him."

"Thank you, Sarah," David says emphatically.

"Are you ever going to tell him?" The abrupt question startles Davey, and he feels his heart catch in his chest. She hasn't pressed it recently, but he knows exactly what she's talking about; thinking you're going to lose your best friend does a good job of putting things in perspective, especially when it comes to your feelings. If David learned anything during those nine months, it's that his world is a worse place without Jack Kelly in it.

"I can't. Not right now, I mean," he hurries on at Sarah's frustrated sound. "Not until I know what's going on with him. But once we figure this out, once I know he's okay - then yeah, I'll tell him."

"Good. Okay, I gotta get back to work. All these metahuman attacks have got me backlogged on cases," Sarah says.

Davey grins. "Go save the world, Detective."

"And you go tell the story," Sarah responds, and he can hear her grinning. 

* * *

It was bound to happen eventually, if he's honest with himself. David knew from the beginning that writing a public blog about the speedster hero would paint a target on his own back. After all, if the New York Sun is willing to offer him a column on the assumption he has some direct line to the Streak, it's only fair to expect other people will get the same idea. And that not all of those people will have good intentions.

Still, just because he knows it's a possibility doesn't mean he's prepared for it when it actually happens.

The blow snaps his head to the side, and Davey can't swallow back the yelp, muffled through the gag tied around his mouth. Blood is sharp and coppery on his tongue as the inside of his cheek tears open against his teeth, but at least nothing feels broken yet. Considering he's being punched by a fist of solid metal, he's going to count that a win.

"That was fa' Oscar." David turns his focus back up to his attacker; it's been years since the last time he saw him, but it'd take more than that for Davey to forget the Delancey brothers. Oscar and Morris had bullied Davey and his friends all through their teen years, before graduating to become low-life criminals. Criminals and _metahumans_ , apparently, judging by the fact that Morris can shift his entire body from flesh to brass with a thought. As another blow splits the skin open along his cheekbone, Davey can't help but think it gives a whole new meaning to the idea of 'brass knuckles.'

"You killed my brother, Streak," Morris snarls toward the laptop on the table in front of them, bringing David back to the moment. There is a tiny, green light next to the built-in webcam, and the page is opened to Davey's website, where the video is being streamed live. Even in the little box on the screen, David can tell he looks pathetic, small and pale and bloodied in the shadow of Morris' metallic bulk.

"If you ever wanna see your precious li'l reporter alive again," Morris says venomously, one large hand grabbing Davey roughly by the chin and forcing him to look at the camera, "you'll come face me, and you'll pay for what you did." David stares at the camera, attempting to shake his head against Morris' grip, trying to convey with his eyes what he can't say with words. _Don't come for me, it's gotta be a trap._

Morris crouches down by Davey's side and sneers. "I know speed's your thing, but how about a li'l incentive, just in case?" he says. He wraps a hand around David's left wrist, grinning maliciously, and then squeezes. Davey's strangled scream doesn't completely muffle the sound of snapping bones. "Every five minutes you make me wait," Morris says into the camera when he releases David's wrist, "I break somethin' else. So if I was you, I'd hurry."

Striding to the table, Morris slams the laptop shut so hard it breaks. He turns back to David, smirking. "Ya know, it's kinda ironic, you bein' the one for this," he muses, distractedly cracking his knuckles. "Oz always had a thing for you."

David's eyes are watering, his broken wrist sending out continuous waves of pain, but he manages to summon up a skeptical look for Morris. Delancey chuckles. "Don't know what it was he saw in you, but it's true. Always told me, 'whatever about the others, but leave Jacobs out of it.'"

Even though his stomach rebels at the thought, Davey hates to admit something in it makes sense; he had managed to avoid most of the physical bullying in high school, the worst of it happening to his friends when Davey wasn't there. Is it true? Was that Oscar Delancey's demented form of _affection_?

"So it's kinda justice that you're gonna be the one who dies to avenge him," Morris continues, coming back to kneel in front of him. "These wires," he says, directing David's attention down to a few stray wires visible at the edge of his seat, "is hooked up to a concussion bomb beneath this chair. That there's a pressure pad, triggered by the weight of you in the chair. Speedy so much as _shifts_ you from this spot, both'a you go boom."

Heart pounding in his throat, Davey has to fight back a wave of nausea. This can't be happening. He knows the Streak is going to come for him; he's a hero, that's what he does. Davey can't be the reason that he dies. New York needs the Streak infinitely more than it needs a cut-rate blogger who will unearth every secret in the city but can't even tell his best friend he loves him.

"So really, you better hope he gets here soon," Morris says, obviously relishing in David's panic. "'Cause that bomb's gonna be a much faster way to go. You only got so many limbs, and if I did that to your wrist with just one hand, imagine what I can do to ya skull." Despite the weight of blood still on his tongue, Davey's mouth suddenly feels very dry.

Morris sits back on his heels and glances at his watch. "Speaking of," he says, smiling. This punch lands on the side of David's ribcage, triggering a cascade of cracking noises as multiple ribs fracture. He couldn't scream this time even if he wanted to, the impact driving all of the air from his lungs, and his desperate gasp for breath only brings in the mouthful of blood. Coughing is agony, and by the time he manages a few shaky breaths, he can feel tears on his cheeks.

"Fuckin' pussy," Morris growls, rolling his eyes. "Dunno what Oz saw in a cissy fag like you."

Even though he knows it's a terrible idea, David snarls furiously around the gag. It's hardly intimidating, considering his current situation, but he's not going to sit back and let this two-bit villain throw around slurs without reacting. Twisting his unbroken hand under the ropes, he holds up his middle finger in a pointed gesture.

"Oh, youse even dumber than I thought," Morris says, laughing. He grabs David's hand, clutching his extended finger between a finger and thumb, and Davey sees what's coming right before it happens. The bone snaps like a toothpick between metal fingers. "Keep that up, and youse gonna be broke to bits before Speedy even gets a chance to come for ya."

The pain is getting overwhelming now, and David has to focus all of his attention on taking slow breaths through his nose to hold back the darkness teasing the edges of his vision. Morris is still monologuing, but David can't be bothered to pay attention. He needs to stay awake. When the Streak comes for him, he needs to be able to warn him about the bomb. Warn him to get away, leave Davey behind. Maybe, if there's time, he can ask the Streak to pass a message to Jack for him.

"That's anotha five." This statement manages to grab David's attention, and he sees Morris prowling over. His stomach lurches; not another, oh God, which bone this time? He doesn't know if he can stay conscious through another one. "Think Oz always fancied these mile-long legs," Morris drawls, crouching and running a hand over Davey's knee.

David tries to kick at him, stopped by the rope around his ankle, and Morris smirks as he shoots a pointed look at the ground below the chair. Right, pressure pad. Of course, maybe that's the answer. Take himself out of the picture before the Streak even gets here, and with Morris right there, he could take the meta down with him.

Before David can make any decision on the matter, there's a sudden, reverberating clang and Morris tumbles sideways. A blur of blue solidifies in front of him, the Streak clutching his shoulder, and his eyes instantly dart to Davey. He reaches out, but Morris is on his feet again and tackles him.

The fight is almost impossible for David to follow, Morris' coppery body reeling and swinging at the stripes of blue and gold swirling around him. Even still, he can tell that the Streak is losing; Morris doesn't land blows often, but the ones that he does send the Streak sprawling. Meanwhile, the Streak doesn't seem to be able to do anything that affects Morris, his metal body easily deflecting his punches.

A wide swing of Morris' arm clotheslines the Streak, his body flipping over and crashing into a table hard enough to break it. Before the speedster can regain his footing, Morris picks him up by the throat and pins him to a steel girder. The Streak is vibrating, legs kicking as he makes a valiant attempt to break free, but he's trapped. "I want to look inta' the face of the man what killed my brotha," Morris snarls. Even through the fading tremors, the look of wide-eyed panic is clear on the Streak's face as Morris seizes a fistful of the blue leather cowl and tugs. "No way."

Never one to agree with a Delancey, Davey still can't help but echo his surprise. He wants to blame this on the pain, tell himself this is some sort of hallucination brought on by stress and trauma when the Streak's vibrations slow enough to make features visible. Despite the sweat-tousled mess of hair and the flush of oxygen-deprived skin, there's no mistaking that face; the squared jaw, the high cheekbones, the wide, dark eyes. It's the face Davey's dreamt about for years, the face he knows better than his own.

" _Jack Kelly_ ," Morris growls, furious. "Oh, of course. I shoulda known." He slams Jack against the girder, the metal denting under the impact, and then lets him fall into a heap on the ground. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this so much more now."

Jack is gasping for air as he struggles to pull himself onto all-fours, and when he lifts his head, he shoots a stricken look across the room. "Davey," he whispers, his voice hoarse and shaking. There's a long, tense moment where David holds his gaze, letting the truth and deception wash over him. Then, with a resigned frown, Jack disappears in a streak of lightning.

Morris laughs, dark and vindictive. "Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me. Some hero he is. Always knew Kelly was a chicken-shit." He turns on David, grinning. "Shoulda picked a better hero to write about, looks like your little boyfriend is nothin' but a coward."

The pain in his chest now is worse than his wrist and ribs combined, a nauseating tidal wave of betrayal. All this time, all the lies, and now Jack turns and runs as soon as his secret is out. David lifts his chin defiantly as Morris starts to stalk toward him; just because Jack's being a coward doesn't mean Davey will. He's going to face down whatever Delancey has in mind for him without letting his fear show.

A low, resonant boom like a fighter jet shakes the walls around them, and suddenly Morris is flying across the room. He hits the far wall, the steel buckling under the weight of his metal body, and falls. When David looks up, Jack is standing where Morris was, unsteady on his feet and clutching his right arm against his chest but scowling fiercely. "That was fa' Davey."

David makes a startled noise, garbled in the bloodstained cloth between his teeth. Jack's attention spins immediately to him, and he staggers forward, dropping to his knees in front of Davey's seat. "Dave, you 'kay?" he asks breathlessly, scrambling to untie the ropes around one of David's wrists.

The moment his hand is free, David shoves Jack away from him, clenching his jaw around the sharp ache it sends up through his broken finger. The movement obviously catches Jack off guard because he falls back onto his rear, eyes filled with hurt when he looks up at David. "Look, I know this ain't good," he says, voice cracking. "I never wanted ya to find out like this, I swear it."

Desperate, Davey yanks at the gag, breaking the skin of his lip, until he manages to slide it down over his chin. "Don't touch me," he hisses frantically, making Jack recoil with a pained noise. "The chair. There's a bomb under the chair. I move and you die."

"Jesus Christ," Jack breathes, expression shifting instantly from hurt to terror. He digs a small metal piece from inside his cowl and slips it into his ear. "Race, ya get that?"

"Race?" David echoes in shock. Antonio 'Racetrack' Higgins is one of the scientists from World Labs that helped take care of Jack while he was in a coma. Davey got to know both him and Dr. Morris while he was visiting Jack, has almost considered them something like friends over the last year. He feels something cold and hard settle in his stomach; of course they know, of course they're all in on it.

"Well, what the hell do I _do_?" Jack snaps, ignoring Davey. "I dunno, what's that? That ain't helpin'!"

"Jack, just go," says Davey.

"Shaddup," Jack says flatly. "C'mon, Race, gimme options."

"I mean it, Jack!" David half-shouts. "Just go. The city needs you a helluva lot more than they need me."

"Yeah, well _I_ need you!" The intensity of Jack's glare leaves Davey breathless long before the words even sink in. "So shaddup and lemme focus." Touching the earpiece, he says, "Options, Race. Ya think I can go fast 'nough?"

As Racetrack assumedly runs the numbers by Jack through the headset, Jack busies himself with untying the rest of the ropes. It's clear that he's in pain, his teeth locked as his right hand fumbles over the knots. David isn't any more useful, every ounce of willpower focused on keeping him from crying out whenever Jack's fingers brush his broken wrist. Davey glares up at the ceiling, blinking back tears and focusing on his breathing.

When Jack moves to the rope on his ankle, Davey swallows and manages to look forward again. Morris Delancey looms over them, less than two feet away and hefting an enormous metal bar over his head like an executioner's ax. "Jack! Look out!"

Things happen too fast to comprehend after that, and David's world dissolves in a hurricane of light and sound and pain. 

* * *

David wakes in a panic without knowing why, bolting into a sitting position before the sudden pain in his ribs steals his breath. He gasps, coughing, and becomes aware of a warm hand on his shoulder that steers him back against pillows. "Easy, slow breaths. That's it, just - not _you_ , you sit back down, he don't need you crowding him - yep, good job, Dave. There ya go."

As his breathing finally steadies out, the rest of the world comes into focus. Everything around him is white and polished surfaces, and something about it all strikes him as familiar in a distant way. He looks down at his body and sees a pale blue blanket draped over him. His hands lay in his lap, one in a heavy cast and the other with splinted fingers and an IV taped to the back.  _Hospital?_ his brain supplies hesitantly.

The hand has shifted on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into the tensed muscle there. Davey glances sideways and is met with the warmest smile. It was the first thing David noticed about Dr. "Crutchie" Morris the first time they met, the smile that was impossibly bright and genuine. During the months of Jack's coma, that smile had been a constant source of comfort. It also provides the last piece to the puzzle, reminding Davey why he knows this place that's a hospital but not - it's the World Labs infirmary where Jack was treated for months. "Hey, welcome back," Crutchie says, a small wash of relief on his face as he meets David's gaze. "How ya feeling?"

"What happened?" Davey asks, surprised by how hoarse his voice comes out. Breathing is still difficult around the ache in his ribs, but he can feel a steady pulse of cool air inside his nostrils; lifting his IV'd hand, he feels an oxygen cannula taped below his nose. "There was - I don't remember. No, wait, Delancey. Morris Delancey and a bomb and-" David's gaze snaps upward, drawn like a magnet to the other side of the room. "Jack."

Tense but trying not to show it, Jack is perched on the very edge of the bed opposite like he was stopped halfway through getting up. He's only wearing a pair of ratty basketball shorts, displaying a wide assortment of bandages covering his bruise-mottled skin. There's a bulky cast that extends from his right fingers all the way past the elbow, as well as bandaging wrapped around his opposite shoulder, his ribs, and a thigh. He looks beat all to hell, but when he meets Davey's eyes, the pain in his gaze has nothing to do with the physical.

"You two clearly have a lot to talk about," Crutchie says, clearing his throat. "So I'll make this fast, okay?" He runs a series of cursory checks, taking David's vitals and flashing a light in his eyes, before he steps back. "Looking good, looks like just a small concussion. Only one of the cuts needed stitches, nothing too lasting. So that just leaves you with five broken ribs, two broken bones in your left wrist, and...one finger on the other hand?"

At this, he pauses and raises an eyebrow questioningly at Davey. "I expressed my displeasure and Delancey didn't appreciate it," David admits with a rueful grin.

Leaning against the foot of Jack's bed, Racetrack Higgins howls with laughter. " _Gesù_ , only you would provoke the giant metal monsta that kidnapped ya," he says, Italian accent surging forward in his amusement and drawing out the vowels. He grins and points to Davey with the cigarette that's almost always tucked behind one ear. "Good on ya."

"Don't encourage him," Crutchie says exasperatedly, clicking his tongue. Turning back to David, he says, "I'm gonna keep an eye on you for a few more hours, if that's okay, but you should be good to go home by morning. So just don't push it, get lots of rest. Doc's orders."

"My sister," Davey says, dread blooming in his stomach. She would've heard about the video by now, maybe even seen it. She must be going out of her mind with panic. "I have to-"

"Called her," says Race immediately. "She knows ya safe. Said to have ya call when you're home."

David nods, slumping back into the pillows of the medical bed with a sigh. The low-level pain has been chipping away at his energy and he's starting to think rest sounds like a great idea. He shifts on the blankets, trying to settle into a more comfortable position, but his ribs don't seem to be willing to cooperate. "Thank you," he says, summoning up a smile for Crutchie.

The doctor beams warmly. "There's a button there when the pain gets bad," he says, gesturing down to the button on the arm of the bed. "And I'll be just out there, in case, well," David doesn't miss the way Crutchie's eyes dart to Jack for a split second, "you need anythin' else." With that, Crutchie pats Davey reassuringly on the shoulder and then heads toward the door. The rhythmic click of his forearm crutch is resounding in the silence that hangs in the room as Race trails him out, leaving David and Jack alone.

The moment the other two vanish around the doorway, Jack slides the rest of the way off the bed and limps across the room. It's been a long time since Davey's seen his best friend so uncertain; Jack hovers near the foot of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck and not quite able to meet David's eyes. He opens his mouth twice like he wants to say something, then seems to reconsider it and snaps his jaw shut.

David clears his throat, realizing he's going to have to be the one to start. "Jack, si'down," he says, nodding toward the end of the bed. "Your leg looks like it hurts."

"It's nothin'," Jack says with a shrug, but he perches on the mattress next to Davey's ankles. "Caught a bitta shrapnel, s'all."

"Shrapnel?" Davey asks, slightly horrified. He remembers there was a bomb, a trap set to kill the Streak if he attempted to rescue David. "What happened? Because I don't remember it. I mean, I remember you there and you were trying to figure out what to do about the bomb, and then - Morris was there. Came back, I mean. And then, just, nothing."

Jack winces. "That's pro'lly my fault," he says, picking at the plaster on his arm. "Was the bomb. When I saw Morris comin' back, I figured we didn't have a lotta time. So I grabbed you and ran, fast as I could. Bomb went off, o'course, but we was most way out the door by then. Tried ta' shield ya much as I could but obv'sly I didn't do too great."

"I'm alive," David points out. "Considering there was a bomb rigged to me, alive is pretty good." Jack's laugh is humorless, and he still hasn't looked up from his hands. Okay then, direct approach it is. "Jack, you're the Streak."

Another flinch. "Still hate that name."

" _Jack_." The other man grimaces but finally lifts his head, jaw set and tension vibrating through every line. _Literally_ vibrating, actually, in fits and bursts like he can't help himself. Despite the valiant attempt at his usual casual confidence, David's known him long enough to recognize the whirlwind of emotion behind his eyes, even without the bizarre new tell of vibrations. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jack laughs, the sound broken and half-hysterical. "Ya think I didn't wanna?" he responds, dragging his uninjured hand through his hair. It's a familiar sign of stress that his New York accent is suddenly so much thicker than usual. "Jesus, Davey, soon's I realized what I can do, youse the first person I wanted ta' tell. And I was gonna, I was. But I got all caught up in this, bein' able to save people and stoppin' bad metas. Then Race a'most died just 'cause someone figured out he knew the Streak."

"He did?" Davey asks, shocked. This is news to him and he glances curiously toward the doors where the other two men vanished.

"Wasn't even a meta, eitha," says Jack and he shakes his head. "Just a thug wantin' to cause trouble. Nearly killed Race tryna get a name outta him." Jack pauses, looking a bit ill, and he swallows hard before he continues. "Afta that, I couldn't tell ya. Was tryna keep this stuff here as far away from my life as I could. The thought'a someone goin' after Medda or Les or you? I couldn't do it."

"That's why you tried so hard to get me to stop writing about the Streak," David concludes. "To keep me away from all this. You were scared someone would use me to get to you."

The noise that comes out of Jack is shattered and animal. "Damn right, I was scared. And I was _right_. Look at ya, Davey. Delancey was gonna kill ya. A'most did. So yeah, call me a coward, but I a'most lost ya today and that scares me more'an anythin'."

David is struck dumb by the raw openness in Jack's face, something so pure that it cuts through him like a knife. There is a long moment as they stare each other down, both of them breathing heavily. Then Davey throws caution to the winds, hooks his less-broken hand around the back of Jack's neck, and drags him down into a clumsy kiss.

Jack responds immediately, groaning and leaning into the kiss. His cast-free hand slides up into David's hair, tilting his head to get better access. As much as Davey wants the moment to go on forever, when he tries to press up further against Jack's mouth his ribs protest furiously and he hisses in pain. "Oh, shit," Jack says, pulling back and scanning David frantically. "M'sorry. You 'kay?"

"I'm fine," Davey says, grudgingly slumping back into the pillows. "Just my ribs." He feels his cheeks heat a little as he adds, "Would rather stick to what we were doing, honestly."

A gleeful, boyish grin splits across Jack's face. "Yeah? I mean, I ain't complainin' eitha. Surprised, though."

"You were?" David asks skeptically. "I thought everyone in the world knew I'm completely gone for you."

If possible, Jack's smile is wider. "Not ev'ryone," he admits, and it shocks Davey to see that his ears have gone pink; in all the time he's known him, Jack almost never blushes. "I mean, was hopin' maybe, but I didn't _know_." He chuckles, and he brushes his thumb across David's cheek before letting his hand drop. His gaze flicks to Davey's mouth and then he groans dramatically. "Mm, a'right, nope, you need ta' rest."

"I'm not that tired," David lies, shrugging. He immediately regrets the movement when it jars his side and he has to bite his lip to hide another wince.

Jack snorts, his look pointed. "Youse eyes was droopin' 'fore Crutchie even left the room," he counters. "'Sides, ya stopped yellin' at me so you must be tired." Davey rolls his eyes fondly. "And you gotta be hurtin'. I know how broke ribs feel, it ain't fun."

"What about you?" Davey asks, gaze panning over the layering of bruises and bandages on his best friend. (He determinedly doesn't let his gaze linger on the defined lines of muscle that make up his torso and arms, which have only gotten nicer since the lightning strike - an anomaly that suddenly makes more sense now.)

"Don't worry 'bout me," he says. "I heal quick." Leaning in, Jack reaches across David and presses the button for the morphine drip. He drops a soft, lingering kiss to Davey's brow before he sits back. "Just sleep and get ya'self betta."

Davey feels the pull of the drugs slipping into his system almost instantly, his muscles uncoiling as the sharp edge of pain is smoothed away. Jack moves to get off the bed, hand sliding away, but David grasps at his fingers. "Don't go?" he asks, too tired to be embarrassed by the soft plea in his voice.

"Course not," Jack agrees, smiling. He pulls a chair up next to the bed and sits down, folding his arms on the edge of the mattress. "You get some sleep, Davey. I'mma be here. Promise."

Humming, David lets his eyes drift shut and exhales. A soft brush of fingers traces soothing circles against the back of his wrist and he smiles. Just as he's starting to drift off, a stray thought occurs to him, and he forces his eyes open to glance over at the bedside. "Hey, Jacky? When you punched Morris, that boom - was that you breaking the sound barrier?"

"Yeah," Jack says, and his grin is pleased and proud.

Davey giggles sleepily and his eyes flutter closed again. "That's so cool." He drifts off to the sound of Jack's laughter.


End file.
